


Clearly a Problem

by faeleverte



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Gratuitous nudity, M/M, appropriate use of sexual wellness devices, awkward romantic overtures, improbable archery, inappropriate use of sexual wellness devices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 21:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3585171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But why my <i>window</i>, Agent… Coulson, wasn’t it?” Barton’s hand tightened around Phil’s shin.</p>
<p>“Well, you see,” Phil began as he was grabbed by the lapel and heaved through the window. A crash sounded from somewhere else in the apartment. “They’re already at your door.”</p>
<p>Through the dim light coming through the window, Phil could see that Specialist Barton had lightish hair, pale skin, and not a stitch of clothing on his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperdollkisses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdollkisses/gifts).



> A YEAR ago, I held a blogiversary drawing on [my blog](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com) for a single fic, written especially for one of my darling fans. The drawing was won by the fun, charming, enthusiastic [paperdollkisses](http://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdollkisses/pseuds/paperdollkisses)(insert link). Now, on my two year blogiversary, I am FINALLY getting it published.
> 
> While this story isn’t EXACTLY her prompt, I think it’s fairly close. And it was written with all the joy I could include, because she deserves it! 
> 
> The prompt read, "Pairing: C/C (YUM). It can be Gen to Explicit, your choice. Clint recruits Coulson into SHIELD and he kicks ass and takes names rising in the ranks unbelievably fast. Earning Fury's respect (Possible past meet of each other there), gaining his notorious reputation and gaining the lust/love of one Clint Barton, cold hearted badass. Competence kink, bad assery, awkward romantic moves on either side and cluelessness are all a PLUS! Thank you sooooo much."
> 
> Paperdollkisses, you are sooooo welcome! I DO hope this satisfies, and I’m sorry you had to wait SO LONG. I will say, however, that I’ve learned so much about writing over the past year that this is a better story than I COULD have written a year ago. Happy reading, and I’m so glad you’ve become someone I consider a friend.

____

Phil slipped the tiny tool back into his pocket, and reached out to push open the now unlocked, disarmed window, resisting the urge to grin like a loon. SHIELD had the _best stuff_ , but he was supposed to be a serious agent now, not a fanboy who liked to play with toys. Seriously, though, it was so much easier to get into supposedly secure buildings with this little magic key than he’d ever found it when he’d been armed with a toothpick, a piece of aluminum foil, and a go-to attitude. He swung a leg over the sill, preparing to ease himself inside the dark room, and--

And found himself dangling back _outside_ of the window, five stories up, with his leg squeezed in a vice, and his wonderful little magic key falling rapidly from his jacket toward the sidewalk.

“Hello, Specialist Barton.” Phil was going to be calm, even if it killed him. His mama had raised him _right_ , dammit. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Agent Coulson of SHIELD, that is is, the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.”

“I _know_ what it stands for.” Barton’s voice was gruff but amused, and Phil hoped that meant he’d be pulled up soon. “Why are you coming in my bedroom window in the middle of the damn night?”

“We have received credible reports of a threat to your person, and I--”

“But why my _window_ , Agent… Coulson, wasn’t it?” Barton’s hand tightened around Phil’s shin, and a second point of pressure indicated another hand wrapping around the back of Phil’s knee.

 _Wait. He was holding me up with one hand?_ Phil blinked as he began to move rapidly up, hopefully heading toward upright. 

“Well, you see,” Phil began as he was grabbed by the lapel and heaved through the window. A crash sounded from somewhere else in the apartment. “They’re already at your door.”

Through the dim light coming through the window, Phil could see that Specialist Barton had lightish hair, pale skin, and not a stitch of clothing on his body. Phil didn’t need light to measure the irritation in the heavy sigh that lifted and dropped Barton’s wide, blurry shoulders. 

“And you couldn’t have just _called_ me to let me know?” Barton took a step back and fumbled around in the shadows beside the dim, rumpled bed. “Door’s straight across. You take the left.”

“Well, I…” Phil pulled out his gun and edged toward where Barton had indicated he should go. 

“Watch out for the--” Barton began, then sighed as Phil tripped over something large, wiggling, and hairy, landing tangled with it on the floor, dropping his gun in the process. “Aww, dog.”

The door swung open and a lamp flipped on beside the bed before Phil could extricate himself from the heap of wagging and licking that had somehow ended up on top of him on the floor. Phil started to push himself up, freezing when Barton shouted a warning a moment before something the size and shape of a hen’s egg with a handle on one end flew over his head. The first man through the door dropped like a stone as the-- _Jesus fuck, that_ IS _a buttplug_ \-- item hit him right in the forehead. Phil began to get an inkling as to why Specialist Barton was known by the codename “Hawkeye.”

The next man through the door was taken down by Phil’s foot finding his kneecap, and the one bringing up the rear met a similar fate as the first. The object to hit _him_ , however, was long and clear, studded with small yellow dots of glass and one end was shaped like… a… crank… handle?

Phil tipped his head, staring at it with his mouth open until Barton’s amused drawl broke through his hypnosis.

“Agent, there appear to be more, if you’re done ogling the sex toys.” 

Shoving himself up with both hands, Phil caught the next burly, black-clad man with his fist on the point of the man’s chin, and that earned him an appreciative grunt from the still-naked Specialist who appeared to have the, er, most _unusually_ useful collection of self-pleasuring devices that Phil had ever seen. Two more large buttplugs, also both glass, one featuring a bright lavender jewel on the end of the handle, soared past Phil, one to either side of his head, taking out the next two men that were trying to come into the room.

“Would you consider a strategic retreat at this point, Specialist Barton?” Phil grabbed the nearest thing from the floor that could be used as a weapon, wrapping it in his fist to use as a cosh, as the supply of people to hit didn’t abate. And, while the size, weight, and density of the object were nearly perfect, Phil found himself wishing that he wasn’t _actually_ holding another man’s buttplug.

“Not without my dog!” Barton snapped, and, well, Phil could respect a man who spoke of an animal instead of pants.

“Then perhaps we should alert SHIELD that backup might come in handy just about now?” Phil said it as diffidently as he could manage, when he really wanted to start pleading. He and Barton were now facing each other across the door, each armed with a heavy glass sex toy, swinging at anything that came through the door. 

Phil found it rather more difficult to focus on his opponents swinging fists than he usually would as he kept being distracted by something else swinging at the corner of his eye. He _did_ wish Barton hadn’t been sleeping in the nude. 

Although…

Oh. Oh _god_. What if the plethora of sexual wellness products were because the man had been preparing to _use_ them?

Phil tried not to look as Barton spun to roundhouse kick another goon. He utterly failed not to look, and he utterly failed to see the fist coming at his face until he was tossed away from the door. 

When he shook off the stars a few minutes later, Barton was grappling with the final two goons, the dog had his teeth latched firmly into the buttock of one of them, and Barton looked to be holding his own. Phil pushed himself upright and collected the buttplug that had been his weapon of choice for those pulse-pounding moments of the fight until Phil had become distracted, and flung it with excellent force and decent aim, taking down the man without the dog on his bottom. Clint managed to choke the remaining attacker into unconsciousness. 

“Nice throw,” Barton said, dropping the man and turning to Phil, standing proudly nude in the middle of the room, hands on his hips.

Phil nearly swallowed his tongue. 

Specialist Barton was, for lack of any more creative words, gorgeous. 

Blond hair half-smashed from his pillow, rippling muscles, a physique that could make a Greek god or an art student cry. Everything about him was just… perfect. 

Phil quickly dropped his eyes when he realized he’d spent entirely too many moments staring at Barton’s… everything. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket, pressed the button to dial the night dispatch, reported the attack, and requested cleanup.

Barton was still posed-- and unclothed-- in the middle of his rumpled bedroom. And he was still smirking, too. 

“So you gonna tell me how you made it up to my window?” He held up one hand in a _hang on_ gesture, bent over to grab the crank-handled dildo off the floor, and threw it at one of the men who was starting to groan and wobble near the door. As the man returned to unconsciousness, Barton turned back toward Phil and slapped his fists back onto the sharp juts of his hipbones. Phil stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from making the grabby hands gesture at those hips, feeling irrationally jealous of Barton’s knuckles.

“Oh, uh... “ Phil cleared his throat, shook his head and tried again. “I didn’t get up to it. I came down to it. From the roof. The building next door was much easier to climb, and then I just roof jumped and… Down. It worked.”

Barton digested that for a moment and then nodded. “I’ll figure out how to fix that later, then.”

“If you’re going to keep having unapproved visitors in the middle of the night,” Phil replied, trying to stifle his urge toward snippiness, but unable to do so, “perhaps you should just leave things the way they are so I can get in here and _warn_ you.”

“You or anyone from SHIELD could have just _called_ ,” Barton returned, crossing his arms over his massive chest. And that was just _unfair_ because it drew Phil’s eyes right back to the mass of those shoulders and biceps and pectorals and _everything_. “Then I could have kept them from getting in the building, thereby endangering my neighbors and my dog.”

“I…” Phil tried to answer, felt himself blush, and swallowed. “I’m sorry. My orders were to keep watch and to come in to give you the warning.”

Barton sighed and rubbed his eyes with index finger and thumb.

“Fine. You’re new. I’ll forgive you.” He turned to the dresser and pulled out a pair of sleep pants. “You gonna help me clean up the mess you made before you go?”

Phil felt his cheeks heat again, and, inexplicably, Barton laughed.

_____

The last member of the SHIELD cleanup crew was finally herded out the door, and Clint headed back to his bedroom to survey the damage. Not that he usually kept his bedroom _all_ that clean. But, just this once, he’d actually gotten his laundry washed and put away instead of in the dirty heap in the corner or folded in the clean basket at the foot of his bed. That sudden frantic need to get all of his laundry clean was what had him sleeping in the altogether. 

_Heh. All apart, is more like…_

And oh, _GOD_ , why did it have to be _that_ night!

Figures that the one time Clint actually got his place cleaned up (collecting and putting away the frankly alarming glass menagerie that his so-called _friends_ kept adding to as gag gifts), got to bed at a decent hour, and actually fell asleep was the night that SHIELD decided to introduce Clint to all his wet dreams come to life in the form of Agent Coulson. The skill the man must have used to reach Clint’s window, let alone have it fully unlocked _without_ waking Clint or Lucky, was breathtaking. And the way he’d looked in a suit was appealing. And his absolute unflappability in the face of being hung five stories over the sidewalk, being confronted with unexpected nudity, and the application of pyrex insertables into a fistfight with large men… Well, that right there was more than Clint could possibly be expected to resist. 

Sadly, his middle-of-fight fantasies about being pinned to his bed and _made_ to take any of the less _usual_ of the toys they’d used as weapons had dissolved when Coulson had gotten a good look at Clint’s nightstand. Clint supposed there still existed a twenty-percent chance that Coulson had _actually_ been horrified by the piece of furniture itself-- a single drawer clear acrylic table that Natasha insisted was an affront to good taste and that Jimmy promised him was the gayest thing about Clint _and that was saying something _\-- or by the jumble that Clint kept in the drawer.__

__Since he’d cleaned it off earlier in the afternoon, all of his odds and ends-- the handful of random batteries; a dusting of feathers, both for fletching and otherwise; a hair tie that might have been Natasha’s but might not; spare collar for Lucky; spare tags for Lucky; earbuds with knotted wires; handcuffs, for work; condoms; lube; half a sandwich; the, errr, _disco stick_ that Clint _actually_ used-- were all plainly visible through the clear, freshly dusted top. But, really, Clint couldn’t kid himself that much. It was the dildo that Coulson had stared at, blinked at, glanced at Clint’s ass at, and then fumbled all three buttplugs he was holding, dropping them to watch them shoot off in various directions around the room. After that, Coulson didn’t look at him again, and that was a pity, because he’d had some gorgeous eyes in the dim light of the bedside lamp._ _

__However unflappable during a fight Coulson may have been, when he got a minute to think, he was clearly uncomfortable with a man owning that variety of sex toy, and so, well, he was probably not gay._ _

__Clint contemplated taking off his sleep pants before crawling into bed, but gave that up as a bad idea and flung himself down beside the dog on top of his comforter. He punched his pillow. Flopped to his other side. Flipped the pillow. Burrowed his way under the covers, and then gave up on getting comfortable and just… lay there._ _

__Until someone knocked on his door._ _

__Seriously! Did no one look at the clock? It was two in the damn morning, and Clint had to _actually_ go into SHIELD the next morning to do his paperwork from the mission that had apparently followed him home, and why the _hell_ was someone beating on his goddamn door at this time of night._ _

__Clint opened the drawer in his hall table, using his thumbprint to unlock the hidden catch, and pulled out his service weapon. He tucked it behind his back as he stepped up to open the door, leaving the chain on._ _

__“What do you… Oh.” Clint cut himself off and stood there, staring at the man in the hall._ _

__“I forgot something when I was here earlier?” Coulson sounded much less sure of himself than he had before, and he reached up awkwardly to rub the back of his neck. Clint unconsciously mirrored the gesture, gouging himself in the side of his skull with his gun._ _

__At least that had the distinct advantage of knocking Clint out of the near-trance he’d fallen into, looking at Coulson, suave, sleek, all-too-sophisticated Coulson, looking tired and rumpled, and sporting a purpling bruise on one cheekbone._ _

__“Sorry!” Clint gasped, shutting the door to release the chain, getting the gun and the chain tangled a moment before remembering to put the pistol back in the holster and close the drawer, and then he got the chain unfastened and pulled the door open._ _

__Coulson was halfway down the hall and moving away._ _

__“Wait! What… I thought you…” Clint called after him. Coulson turned around, surprise written all over his face._ _

__“You shut the door on me,” he said. “I figured I would have to--”_ _

__“The chain was in the way, so I had to close the gun to open it.”_ _

__Coulson blinked at him. Opened his mouth to speak. Closed it. And then he blinked again._ _

__“I think there were words missing in that sentence.” Crinkles of amusement were appearing around the corners of Coulson’s eyes, and Clint watched them, fascinated._ _

__“I think my brain was missing in that sentence, actually.” Clint took a deep breath to calm himself and tried again. “I had to close the door to get the chain off, and I wanted to put away my gun before I invited you in.”_ _

__“Oh.” Coulson pondered for just one second and then nodded. “Okay.”_ _

__“So why don’t you come in now.” Clint stepped back to make space. “I’m usually way better at this.”_ _

__“At what?” Coulson asked curiously, ducking past Clint and reaching down to pat Lucky’s head._ _

__“Acting like people.” Clint grinned at him. “Hi. I’m Clint Barton. Glad you were here to keep me from being murdered in my bed earlier. Thanks.”_ _

__Coulson stared at him, mouth hanging slightly open and then he extended his hand to shake, the eye crinkles fully in evidence._ _

__“Phil Coulson. It was an unusual introduction,” he said, swallowing a laugh. “But I’m glad I was here, too.”_ _

__They stood there, hands linked in a shake that morphed into an awkwardly long hand-holding before they both managed to let go. Clint cleared his throat and grabbed the back of his neck, while Coulson looked away and fidgeted with the end of his tie._ _

__“You left something?” Clint prompted, more for something to say than out of any real desire to move the visit along._ _

__“Yes. Earlier. In your room.” Coulson turned slightly pink around the edges. “When I tripped over your dog. My gun…”_ _

__“Well shit!” Clint blinked. “How’d you forget that?”_ _

__Coulson turned to look Clint in the eye and deadpanned, “The evening became more eventful than I’d anticipated. I didn’t remember having _drawn_ until I was picking up my universal key from the sidewalk. I, er, carry it with my holster.”_ _

__Clint nodded and turned to lead Coulson back to his bedroom, and Coulson immediately dropped to his knees in front of the dresser, reaching under the gap at the front edge._ _

__“It should be right--” The sentence stopped as Coulson withdrew his hand._ _

__Lying across his palm was an eight inch long piece of curved glass, with a thin strip of pink glass running around it from the bulbous head on one end to the bulbous head on the other. Clint felt his face heating as he reached down to snatch it from Coulson’s hand._ _

__“From a friend. A couple of friends. They like to… They have this tendency…” He opened his underwear drawer and shoved it inside. “The only one I use is that one in the nightstand.”_ _

___Aww, mouth, no._ _ _

__Coulson blinked at him, owl-eyed, reached under the dresser once more and successfully removed his sidearm._ _

__“I didn’t… I wouldn’t…” Coulson clambered to his feet. He threw a look over to the nightstand with it’s visible brilliant purple dong occupant and sucked in a deep breath._ _

__Great. Now, even if the guy _was_ into dudes, he thought Clint was some kind of _size queen_ or something. Which, okay, so maybe Clint was, just a little bit, but he wouldn’t kick a handsome man with a unique skillset out of bed, no matter what the size of his package. Clint took a breath to try to voice that thought and realized there was _no_ way for it to come out without sounding like a particularly aggressive come-on. He closed his mouth without speaking and found Phil staring at the nightstand, eyes wide and wild._ _

__“You okay?” Clint started to reach for Coulson’s arm and then thought better of it, letting his hand drop._ _

__“It’s…” Coulson swallowed hard. “It’s rather big.”_ _

__“Well, it’s all a--” Clint had no idea where he was going with that sentence, and he was almost grateful when Coulson interrupted him._ _

__“It’s almost as big as _me_.” And then Coulson’s eyes went wider and even _more_ horrified and he rushed across to the window, flung up the sash, and disappeared into the night._ _

__Well _shit_! _ _

__That was… He really…_ _

__Clint closed the window, flipped off the lamp and crawled back into bed, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. He didn’t know how long it was before Lucky jumped back onto the bed, turned around three times (stepping on every tender bit Clint had in the process) and then flopped down. Clint was too distracted to shove the dog off his legs._ _

___Agent Phil Coulson really knows how to get the last word in._ _ _

__With a strangled sort of chuckle, Clint rolled over and finally fell asleep._ _

_______ _


	2. Chapter 2

____

“You’re staring again. It’s creepy, that staring thing you’re doing.” Jimmy Woo’s voice barely registered, but the coffeecup that floated into view in front of Clint’s face quickly jerked him back from the mental abyss into which he’d fallen. “A-a-aaand he’s with us. You know, Barton, rather than a creepy staring thing, you could just go over and say hello.”

Clint took a long pull at the coffee he’d been handed and turned a baleful glare toward Woo. 

“I’m just saying! It’s got to be a better strategy than trying to make him notice you with the power of your brain alone.” Woo flapped a hand in Coulson’s direction, and Clint swiftly looked away, afraid the movement would catch Coulson’s attention. 

“So I, what, go up to him and say, ‘Hey, Coulson. Don’t know if you remember me. We met nine months ago when you helped me beat off-- er, _repel_ an attack at my apartment using nothing but your amazing hand-to-hand skills and the collection of novelty sex toys my friends like to buy me as jokes.’” _And then you mentioned you have a really big dick, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it yet._

Clint snorted and took another deep pull from his coffee. “I’m sure he remembers me fondly when he needs a joke to tell around the watercooler, but it’s not exactly the first impression I wanted to make.”

“First off, Barton, you’re the one who has that monstrosity of a nightstand.” Woo leaned his elbow on the table, a faraway look in his eyes and a grin on his face. “Seriously, you have a _see-through_ nightstand. How were Romanov and I supposed to resist trying to stock that thing? And second, I’m sure it’s not _that_ bad. You _did_ fight off the bad guys, right? So you at least looked competent.”

“I looked naked, Woo. _Nake. Ed._ ” Clint gulped the last of his coffee and scrubbed his hand over his face and through his hair. “There were dildos and buttplugs and other weird, sexual shit flying all over the place, and there I stood, without a stitch on, trying not to pop a stiffy because this hot guy in a suit was beating the hell out of people that wanted to kill me. Most. Embarassing. Moment. Ever.”

“It’s so cute that you actually believe that’s your most embarrassing moment,” Woo sounded thoughtful. “Remember that thing with the toothbrush in Havana? Or that time you were in the tree for three hours in nothing but that hot pink condom? Or the guy with that red--”

“Yes, _thank_ you, Woo.” Clint’s head thunked down on the table. “At least all the witnesses to all of that were either people who knew me or people who didn’t fucking matter.”

“So Coulson matters, does he?” Woo snorted sarcastically and opened the thermos in front of him, refilling Clint’s mug and his own. “Now’s your chance to make yourself look better, though. He’s point on this mission, and you’re about to have to go stare at him through a scope for God knows how long. You might as well go say hi now, at least.”

“He probably just picked me for my file. Flipped a coin or something. I wonder if he has figured out that the sniper he chose is the same person that tossed him a buttplug to beat the hell out of someone.” Clint sighed and flipped one arm over the back of his head, nose still pressed to the tabletop. “Fuck my life…”

“Damn, Barton. You’ve got it bad.” 

“ _WHAT?_ ” Clint’s head snapped up, and he quickly became aware that half the canteen was staring at him. He lowered his voice and tried to look calm. “No. _No!_ It’s not… That’s not… It’s just…” He took a deep breath and tried again. “He’s… Seriously, Woo. Coulson’s outta my league. Fury’s had him fast-tracked since the day he walked through the door, but no one else around here’d ever heard of him. What would someone that knew Nick Fucking Fury, who’s _already_ a senior agent after less than a year, want with a carnie with a stick and string? Besides, what’m I supposed to say to him? ‘Hey, boss. I’m that one naked guy. Wanna make out?’”

“Good thing he’s not _actually_ your boss, then.” Woo grinned. “Just go say hi, Barton. Quit being a wuss and at least _pretend_ to be a goddamn professional.”

“But it’s so much _easier_ to just keep hiding over here with the coffee.” Clint heaved a sigh and squared his shoulders, scowling in mock-seriousness. “I’m going to the range. Need my skills to be perfect if I’m going to be the only thing standing between the peerless Coulson and the bad guys, right?”

Woo’s chicken impression followed Clint across the canteen and out into the hall.

____

 

Phil watched Barton swagger through the double doors and out of the canteen to a mocking chicken-cluck soundtrack from the handsome young analyst he’d been sharing coffee with. He was man enough to admit that it was ridiculous that he _wasn’t_ man enough to just go over there when Barton had been sitting at the table and say hello. And that he wasn’t man enough to follow Barton into the hall. 

But, honestly, what was he going to say? _Hello, Barton. I see you’re wearing clothing now. Not as good a look on you as the first time we met. Mind getting naked so I can ogle you, imagine that jeweled plug wedged up you, and then you can laugh at me as I stick my foot quite firmly back in my mouth?_

Those words were the most likely to come of out Phil’s mouth, should he actually manage to suck it up-- _No, bad phrasing_ \-- Should he actually manage to get a grip on himself-- _Worse phrasing, given how his morning shower had gone_ \-- Should Phil ever get courageous enough to speak to Barton. Which, given that the last time they’d exchanged more than a nod in the hall had included Phil basically announcing his, er, _cup size_ , would not help the impression Phil had likely made. 

Nine months Phil’d been avoiding Barton, but instead of abating, the ridiculous crush he’d developed while watching Barton’s competence (and nudity) on first meeting had grown to the level of Phil hanging out wherever anyone was talking about Barton, sucking up any morsels. And all the tidbits Phil heard only made his interest grow. Barton had a reputation for being mouthy without ever being insubordinate. He was known for being the best shot-- with any weapon-- in the entire organization. And he was, apparently, known for being the hottest thing on two legs SHIELD had ever seen. _That_ assessment Phil completely concurred with.

Phil wondered again why, no matter how good Barton was, he’d lost his mind enough to personally request the attractive sniper be his backup on this mission. Certainly, the location left a lot to be desired for any sharp-shooter, and certainly having someone known for being able to hit a target in awkward circumstances and positions would be a boon. But for three-quarters of a year he hadn’t spoken to the man, and he suddenly found himself faced with the prospect of up to two hours on a private comm line with nothing to do _except_ talk to Barton. Or sit in uncomfortable silence and stare at a guaranteed-boring view and pretend he was perfectly content to do so. 

No. Phil would _not_ do that. He would converse. He would offer pithy and interesting observations. He would prove that he did have a brain, and he wasn’t really dumb enough to go strolling away, leaving his sidearm under someone’s dresser. And, if everything went well, and if Phil could manage to start a _normal_ conversation, just maybe he could suck up the nerve to ask Barton out for coffee. SHIELD agents ran on coffee, so surely that wouldn’t be too weird. 

Even _with_ their history of nudity and, er, _unusual_ armaments.

If coffee and a conversation went well, then surely they could turn coffee into dinner. Should dinner happen and things go well, perhaps Phil would get another quick glimpse of Barton’s _collection_. Maybe even an in-depth review. 

Phil yanked his thoughts up short, feeling slightly ashamed of himself for being so focused on the physical when it came to Barton, who he really _was_ interested in getting to know. In more than the carnal sense, even. He downed the dregs of his coffee and decided to head down to the range and see if shooting for awhile would settle his nerves. Nothing _else_ to do on base tonight, anyway, and the morning’s briefing was too early to even consider trying to sleep at home.

____

 

Clint pulled his shirt off by his second quiver of arrows. There was sweat running down his neck, and his t-shirt was sticking to his back, pulling off his aim. There were two other people at the range, both of _them_ using guns, and Clint struggled to ignore them. One of them kept making the ignoring exceptionally difficult, however, as he stopped firing every time Clint loosed more than two arrows in a row. Clint fired his last arrow into the center of the bullseye, and the agent put a bullet through the same spot on his own target.

And _that_ seemed like a challenge.

Five minutes to get the butt swapped out, enough time to down a bottle of water, wipe his chest dry with his shirt, and Clint was ready to play.

“You first,” Clint called, drawing the string back to the corner of his lips and waiting.

The agent in the next stall fired five shots, the first four marking the corners of a square and the fifth striking a mere centimeter off of dead center between them. Clint pulled out five arrows, placing two nocks on the string at a time, and firing. The first pairs denoting the corners of a perfect square, and the final arrow sinking in deep, all the way to the fletching, just a centimeter off of center. 

After a moment’s silence, there was a bark of laughter, and the agent fired again, this time leaving a perfect “C” on the target. _Too easy._ As if the letter C wasn’t one of the first tricks Clint had learned.

Clint and his mystery partner played for another hour, shape after shape, letter after letter. His favorite was the rough shape of a hand with a raised middle finger. And then the fucker with the gun decided to up the ante. 

Three bullets in a row, aim so perfect that the second and third went through the hole left by the first without ruffling the paper of the target. 

_Huh._

Okay, then.

Clint carefully placed three arrows on the low wall in front of him, lifted and nocked the first, and took a deep, steadying breath. 

The point struck the center of the bullseye, not so much as a millimeter off. 

The second arrow split neatly up the first, stopping shy of the arrowhead, leaving the ruined shaft curling away to each side. 

One more arrow, trickier still. 

Clint contemplated the angle for only a split second, drew back the string to kiss the corner of his lips, and let it fly.

The second arrow stayed put, split down the center, the shaft curling up and down, leaving a flower in the target.

Clint let out a whoop of victory in time with his playmate. He slung his bow on his shoulder and decided to duck around and see which agent had helped him get his workout. The other agent slid the clip free from his gun, turning at the sound of Clint’s boots against the cement floor.

_Welp, at least I’m wearing_ pants _this time._

Coulson had taken off his jacket, and rolled up his cuffs, loosened his tie and unfastened the top two buttons on his shirt. A brilliant grin lit his face, setting his eyes to sparkling and flushing his cheeks, and he looked absolutely, one-hundred and ten percent gorgeous. 

“Nice shooting, Specialist Barton!” The light in Clint’s apartment must have been _horrible_ that first night, because Clint didn’t remember Coulson’s eyes being so very, very blue or his smile being so very bright. “I’d heard about your aim, but that is phenomenal!”

“You, too, Agent Coulson.” Clint tried not to stare at Coulson’s mouth and ended up trying to count the freckles that bestarred Coulson’s forehead instead. “You’re phenomenal, too.” 

Coulson blinked twice as Clint tried to figure out if he knew of any tech that could make the floor actually swallow him alive.

“Your aim, I mean, it was… That was fun.” Clint didn’t facepalm only through extreme effort of will. _Way to go, Clint! Make an uncomfortable moment even_ more _uncomfortable._

“I’d… I’d better go ahead and turn in. Early mission and all that.” Coulson’s smile had gone all weird, as if it wanted to transform into another expression and couldn’t decide what it was supposed to be, and he’d quit meeting Clint’s eyes. “I’ll see you in the morning, Barton.”

“Yeah, that’s… Can’t wait.” Clint scratched the back of his neck. Coulson started coughing, and then he ducked back for his pistol and spent clips, and then took off for the exit from the range as quickly as his legs would carry him. 

Clint saw his jacket hanging on the partition and scooped it up; at least he knew he was seeing the guy in the morning. And, hopefully, Coulson would never find out that Clint had given it just a little sniff. Just one sniff, just to see if Coulson wore something that smelled good, and to see if it had transferred to his coat.

(He did. And it had.)

____

 

_It could be worse. At least I have a towel, and I’m not surrounded by a large collection of the most eye-catching and exotic, errrr,_ schtupperware _known to man._

Phil fidgeted with the towel around his waist, making certain it was securely tucked in case of the necessity for sudden movement. He’d been in the steam room of the gym where he was supposed to meet a contact for twenty minutes, and he was already restless. But, really, four tile walls, a blank tile bench, and one grate-- behind which hopefully rested a highly-trained assassin with a pistol-- wasn’t the most exciting of views.

_Be a lot more exciting if I could see the sniper._ Phil shook off the thought as both unhelpful and a bit too _stimulating_.

“Specialist Barton? You there?” He kept his voice pitched as low as he could, trying to make his mutter sound as if he was only talking to himself. Hell, after his performance where he’d choked on his own tongue at the flex of Barton’s chest when his arm went up the night before, Phil might actually _be_ talking to himself; surely that had been a little too obvious.

“No. I hopped a Greyhound for Vegas.” Barton’s sardonic drawl whispered through Phil’s in-ear communicator. “Although, to be fair, being in the desert would be more comfortable. It’s a little steamy up here.”

“You should try it from here.” Phil glanced up with a raised eyebrow, catching a drop of sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand.

“At least you’re dressed for the occasion.” Shuffling and a muted thump echoed quietly in the room. “Full tactical gear, Coulson. It’s like a swamp in my shirt.”

“Your clothing choice from the night we met would be better suited.” Phil’s mouth engaged before his brain had gotten up to speed, and he hoped the heat from the steam hid the flaming blush that he could feel threatening to take over his face. “I’m sorry, Specialist. That was uncalled for.”

Barton laughed, a single bark that Phil heard in stereo through the comm and from the vent across the room. 

“Well, you’re not wrong, Coulson.”

Phil chuckled weakly, and then they returned to sitting in awkward silence. For his part, Phil went back to picking at the knot on his towel and wishing he’d stopped to pick up a paper. _Anything_ to occupy his mind and his hands.

“So last night was impressive.” Phil sighed after he said it, because apparently his mouth was just going to go on without him today. “I mean, the shooting. Your aim. And all that. Was awesome. Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Circus.” Barton answered shortly, and Phil’s brain lit up with an image of Clint, dressed in something small and sequinned glowing in a spotlight.

“No _shit?_ ” Phil wished it hadn’t come out quite so eager. "I'm sorry. Don't mean to pry.” 

“Nah, it’s okay.” Barton laughed gently, as if some inside joke. “You looked damn good there yesterday, too. Where’d _you_ learn to shoot?”

Phil felt the blush coloring his face and sliding down his ears and shoulders.

“If I say ‘carnival midway’ after you’ve said ‘circus’” Phil swallowed and glanced up at the vent, “does it lose its believability?” 

“Is it where you learned to shoot?” Barton’s voice was both amused and curious. 

“Well--” Phil didn’t get to finish his answer as the door burst open and three men carrying bats burst in. 

After that, everything became mostly chaotic flashes of black tac gear and trying to hit things without getting hit in return while slipping around on steam-dewed tile.

____

Clint lifted his pistol, cursing the lack of elbow room. He drew a bead on the first man through the door, but, before he could get off a shot, Coulson was in the way. 

“Goddamnit, Coulson!” Clint wiggled around as best he could in his confined space, dragging the back of his wrist across his eyes to clear the sweat. “Move! Duck! Something!”

He got a clear shot on one man, and his finger began to tighten on the trigger when the first goon lost his footing on the steam-slicked tile and went down with arms flailing. One of his hands managed to grab a handful of Coulson’s towel, but, as it was held only with a simple twist-and-tuck, it offered the man no support, and he tumbled to the floor, dragging the terrycloth with him. 

After that, well, Clint sort of lost his train of thought. He dared _anyone_ to blame him, though, when he suddenly found himself confronted with the entirety of Agent Coulson’s bare back, muscles flexing as he slammed the sole of his foot against one of his attacker’s knees and brought his left fist up on the follow-through to smash the man’s jaw. There was a flicker of silver in the steamy air, and Clint’s focus re-sharpened on the weapon clenched in the first of one goon.

It’d be a Cardinal Sin to touch a knife to that expanse of freckled perfection.

Clint wiggled backwards, trying to unwedge himself from the vent so he could go back the way he’d come and get into that room already. 

“I’m coming, A--” His filter caught up just in time to clip off the rest of the title, just in case the attackers didn’t yet know who they were dealing with. “I’m coming, sir!” He shouted instead as he slithered like a snake on meth and stuck in reverse, every sense screaming at him to _Hurry it the fuck up, Barton, or Coulson might find pants!_

That thought was not helpful to wriggling in a confined space, now that it started sinking in.

_Ohhh, my little crush is getting out of hand. Er, out of something._

Finally freed from the ventilation system, Clint sprinted around a corner, towel- or workout wear-clad men melting out of his way. He bounced off of a wall, off of a row of lockers, and then the door to the steam room was in front of him. He ripped it open to find…

Coulson looked up calmly, sweat beading on his forehead and sparkling in the mat of hair on his chest as he finished choking out an attacker. The _last_ attacker, from the looks of things, as the other two were both crumpled heaps of tac gear. Coulson slowly climbed to his feet, hands dropping down as if to offer a semblance of decency. But…

Big as Coulson hands were, it still didn’t much help. 

Really, it was past time for Clint to shift his eyes someplace else. Okay, any minute now, Clint would be able to look up at Coulson’s face. Any… minute…

_Aww, eyes._

Coulson made a noise, a pained sort of sigh, and Clint managed to at least move his eyes sideways enough to take in the thin but steady flow of red dripping down from the point of Coulson’s hip. Apparently, Clint hadn’t been fast enough getting clear from the vent: someone had gotten in a lucky strike.

Clint scooped up Coulson’s towel and slid his way across the tile.

“Shit, Coulson. Here, it’s…” Clint reached for Coulson’s side with the towel and then found himself with a sudden armload of nude man as Coulson stumbled, turned pale, and began to collapse.

“Hey, Barton.” Coulson grinned up into Clint’s face, his eyes a little glazed as what would become a brilliant bruise bloomed on his temple. “Glad to see you.”

Clint eased them both down to the tile floor and pressed the towel against the gash on Coulson’s hip, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Wish I’d gotten here a little sooner,” Clint said. He reached up to his in-ear comm to switch to an outside line. “Have an injured agent and need cleanup. Three hostiles down in the steam room.”

“We’ll be there in a moment,” Woo acknowledged. “Agent’s status?”

“Knife wound. Nothing vital. Probable concussion.” Clint traced his fingers along the edge of the bruise lightly before reaching back down to again apply pressure to the towel. His other arm was occupied with cradling Coulson close to his chest. “Uhh, bring in a spare towel when you come, Woo.”

Woo laughed, and Clint shrugged. Well, Woo’d understand when he got there, and any eyeful he got for failure to bring a towel was his own damn fault.

“You know, Barton,” Coulson shifted uneasily in Clint’s lap, and Clint really did try to do the gentlemanly thing and keep himself from, er, _noticing_. “You’re awfully pretty.” Coulson reached up and brushed lightly against the spikes of Clint’s hair, probably leaving weird tracks through the humidity-fuzzed mess. “Thought so that first night. Wanted to just stand back and watch you fight. And then wondered about all that… stuff. Wanted a tour of your glass menagerie. Wanted to stuff one of those up your tight little ass… Been watching that ass, since then. Wondered if you ever had one in…”

Clint should _not_ have heard any of that. He was _morally certain_ Coulson didn’t know he was saying it all out loud, and Clint should not have been listening. He couldn’t figure out how to cover his ears without dropping Coulson on the tile or taking the pressure off the cut on his side, however, so Clint bit the inside of his cheek and concentrated on every unsexy thought he’d had since the third grade.

“So very, very pretty.” Coulson sighed contentedly, eyes half-closing, and then, without warning, he surged up and smashed his lips against Clint’s stunned, slack mouth.

“We can come back later, if you guys need a minute.” Woo, in the doorway, sounded far too amused, and far, _far_ too knowing.

Clint felt a surge of envy for Coulson as the man went limp, nearly unconscious, in his arms.

____


	3. Chapter 3

____

It had been two weeks since the mission at the gym where Phil got attacked, got naked, got injured, and got himself caught with his mouth inappropriately attached to Specialist Barton’s. Two weeks of embarrassment, of letting himself remember their first meeting and finding himself rather _painfully_ aroused, and then thinking of the last time they’d seen each other when Phil had been on full display and draped in the man’s arms. It could have been such a nice memory, if Phil hadn’t succumbed to whatever temporary insanity resulted from a concussion and decided that he just _had_ to taste that pouty bottom lip _right then_.

For starters, Phil was not the kind of man who just went around kissing other people all willy-nilly. He liked to wine and dine his potential liplock partners. He got a thrill out of a slow seduction, romancing done right. His mama had taught him to ask permission before he started getting personal with someone, and he’d never just grabbed someone and… and done _that_ before. Phil couldn’t even convince himself that having known the guy a year made it less humiliating, since they had, very literally, only spoken to each other _twice_ before the mission.

The worst of it was that Phil couldn’t actually remember if he’d said the things that had been tracking through his brain. He knew he’d been _thinking_ about Barton’s intimate paraphernalia, but he’d been so foggy after he sliding on the tile and cracking his head on the bench as he went down. He barely remembered the fight after that, having only the basic impression of sweeping the feet out from under one man before resorting to the simple expedient of tackling the last to the floor and choking him until the guy quit poking at Phil with a knife. If only Phil could remember what he’d said or thought or thought then said!

His state of mind became more wild when his treacherous brain tried to convince him that Barton had actually begun to kiss back one blink’s time before the door to the sauna had swung open to admit Agent Woo and a handful of other agents. Phil firmly told himself that hadn’t happened, but-- and only when he was starting to fall asleep-- he would get the strangest sense of touch-memory of Barton’s lips tightening and moving, of suction against his own top lip.

And then Phil would remember that he’d been lying, naked and bleeding, across Barton’s lap, _kissing without permission_ , and he would feel a hot wash of humiliation that killed any deeper exploration of his memories regarding those thirty breathtaking seconds. 

It was time and past to _do something_ about his cowardice, so Phil was again standing in the hallway outside Barton’s apartment, dressed in loose cargo pants that didn’t push on the itchy, healing stitches in his hip. He found himself missing the emotional armor that his usual work suits provided, his current casualwear leaving him feeling nearly as naked as he’d actually been in the sauna.

So he owed Barton an apology, and, if that was accepted, an invitation for coffee and another round of their marksmanship challenge.

He lifted one hand, held his breath, and knocked.

____

 

Clint needed to stop jerking off to images of Coulson taking down hostiles wearing nothing but a determined expression and a slight sheen of sweat. No, really. It had become a semi-serious problem. For one thing, it felt a little creepy, since Coulson had no idea Clint looked at him that way, even though Clint was pretty damned certain that Coulson felt the same way (and was it a completely asshole move to be grateful for concussion confessions?). For another thing, Clint still hadn’t been able to figure out if he was more aroused by the hot, naked man or the hot, naked competence; and that conundrum was just playing hell with his fantasy life. 

Although, hey, bonus points for being able to even think the word “conundrum” while lying on his back with one ankle tucked behind his head.

Okay, so two weeks (nine months) of fantasizing about the possibility of tracking Coulson down at HQ and pinning him against the wall to stake a claim right there in front of Fury and everyone had to mean something. So Clint _had_ to quit being such a damned chickenshit, go find Coulson, and, well, _not_ pin him to the wall. That would be an asshole move, especially at work. Ask him out, then. Dinner. Walk in the park. Another game at the range, maybe.

But _tomorrow_. Tonight was for one more good fantasy, just in _case_ he got shot down.

He was taking his time with himself, only a couple fingers deep so far, and enjoying the slow work-up while he pictured the ripple of muscle down Coulson’s forearms as he’d grabbed the bat from the first man, ripping it out of his hands. Fingers like that would be-- He lost the thought on a groan as he managed to hit himself just right. 

_Fingers. Coulson. Coulson’s fingers. Right._

Lucky woofed softly outside Clint’s closed bedroom door (he was going to _have_ to find a bigger place so Lucky didn’t take up something like thirty percent of the available floor space in any room and one hundred percent of the floor space in the hallway). And then came a frantic scrabble of claws against drywall and scratched-up hardwood floor as Lucky twisted his way to his paws, followed by two sharp, commanding barks. Clint recognized those barks, and he found himself _deflating_ slightly in response.

Who the _hell_ was knocking on the damned door at this time of night?

Clint’s head thumped back against the pillows as he pulled his foot down, letting his hip relax, and stretched himself across his bed to pop the kink out of his back. He weighed the pros and cons of getting up to go see who was knocking, and decided that he really didn’t have a choice. If it was Woo or Natasha, they’d just break in if he didn’t answer. And, well, it’d be better to head _that_ off at the pass _before_ they got to the bedroom and saw what Clint was up to. Up for. Up with. Whatever, they didn’t need to see Clint on his bed and _up_.

Answering the door meant pants, though, and meant stopping what he had been doing, and then having to work himself back up before he could actually get on with his purple, glittery… friend. Get _on_ his purple friend. _Heh_. Clint huffed in exasperation and looked over to where it lay on the bed. Starting over would be no fun for anyone. Well, for Clint. He didn’t think the silicone dong really cared one way or the other.

There was an one more option, however, between continuing _right then_ and starting from scratch after getting rid of his visiter. The idea planted by Coulson’s filthy mouth (and who would have _ever_ suspected unflappable Coulson would even think things like that) took firm root, and Clint rolled off his bed to check the top drawer in his dresser. A few minutes and a generous application of lube later, he was tugging on sleep pants-- albeit a bit gingerly-- and making his way toward the front door.

“Hang on! I’m coming!” he called as he carefully stepped around Lucky. And then he added under his breath, “Well, I’m not coming _now_ , thanks to whoever the hell you are.”

He yanked his service weapon out of the cubby in the drawer and didn’t even bother trying to hide it as he released the chain and ripped the door open--

\-- to again see the back of Agent Coulson retreating down the hall.

“What the hell?” Clint barked in surprise, and Coulson froze midstep, shoulders tensing under a faded blue t-shirt, washed so thin that Clint could see nearly every ridge of muscle that had been haunting his dreams for two damn weeks. 

____

Phil heard Barton’s dog bark and wondered what it’s name was. He should have asked before. Probably would have, had he not felt so wrong-footed, leaving his service weapon behind as he had. And had he not been so focused on the simmer of interest building in his belly as Barton had smiled at him and said hello. Honestly, had it not been for that smile, sheepish and friendly in equal measures, Phil’s attraction might have stayed in the purely physical, but that one look had given such an enticing glimpse of the personality underneath. 

The longer Phil stood outside Barton’s door, the more ridiculous he began to feel. Ten o’clock was too late to stop in unannounced, and it was selfish of Phil to interrupt Barton’s life just to relieve his own conscience. However, Phil was just so tired, and another yet night lying awake in bed and wondering if Barton was angry with him, if Barton really _had_ begun to return the kiss, if Phil even stood a chance with Barton was too draining to even contemplate.

Still, it’d been a solid five minutes since the dog had barked at his knock. So either Barton wasn’t home (possible), he’d looked out the peephole and decided that he didn’t want to deal with the unwelcome kisser on his doorstep (probable), or he was busy with something or someone else and couldn’t drag himself away. Phil refused to examine the images that thought created too closely, just in case Barton _was_ peering out the security viewer and could see Phil’s crotch.

Another sixty seconds passed, and Phil’s shoulders sagged. He turned away slowly, dragging himself reluctantly down the hallway and away from Barton’s door. 

It was time and past to get himself under control. He’d already gained a reputation for being unflappable in even the most _trying_ situations while at work, but Barton cut through all of Phil’s professionalism, leaving him wrong-footed and thoroughly flapped. Phil was hoping, desperately, that a conversation with Barton would either show him that the sexual tension flowed both ways, or that Phil was a fool for even imagining there was anything more than a one-sided crush. Either way, he’d know for certain, and he could put the whole ridiculous thing behind him.

The stairwell loomed in front of him when he heard a lock disengage and the rough voice that had been haunting his dreams (and waking fantasies) exclaim, “What the hell?”

He turned slowly, mouth going dry as he took in Barton, draped along the edge of the door, face and chest flushed, hair rumpled and spiky. He wore only a pair of low-slung sleep pants, and Phil stared at the sharp lines of Barton’s hips, the defined muscles of his abs. 

“Coulson? Why are… Is there… Am I gonna be attacked again?” Barton crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his hip to the doorframe. A flicker of something pained crossed his face, and he flinched, sucking in a quick, shallow breath. “Should I stick with tradition and lose the pants?”

Phil choked on air and then began to cough as he dissolved into undignified giggles, bending down to brace his hands on his thighs. A merry bark added to the noise in the hall, and Barton’s dog, one-eyed, shaggy, and gazing up with a tongue-lolling laugh leaned into Phil’s leg. Phil managed to clear his throat before he choked to death, but he stayed half-bent, wooling the dog’s ears and letting his nose be licked.

“Why don’t you both get in here before we piss off my neighbors.” Barton was wearing a crooked smile when Phil straightened up, and Phil felt his cheeks heat in response. “I mean… if you want to come in? I got beer.”

“Yeah, Barton.” Phil followed the dog back up the hall to the apartment, an electric tingle starting under his skin. If Barton was willing to tease about their previous encounters, if he was willing to invite Phil in and offer him a drink, maybe, just maybe Phil hadn’t screwed everything up just yet. "I could use a beer."

And, from the once-over Clint gave as Phil closed the door behind him, perhaps the tension wasn’t as one-sided as he’d been trying to convince himself.

____

Clint waved Coulson to the couch and went into the kitchenette to collect two bottles of beer from his fridge, grateful that he’d taken the time (and put up the money) to buy something better than Miller High Life. Coulson seemed the kind of guy who knew good beer, and Miller didn’t exactly scream _class._ While he was half-blocked by the counter, Clint took a moment to lean against the wall and just breathe, suddenly wondering how he was supposed to survive the usually elegant Agent Coulson dressed like _that_ while Clint was wearing a plug. 

He also wondered how he could politely bring up said plug and find out if Coulson had meant all the things he’d babbled about it at Clint while half-unconscious in his arms. 

_Down, boy,_ Clint told his dick, aware that the soft flannel he wore left little to the imagination. From the front view, at least.

Perhaps it would be better to excuse himself a moment and duck off to his bedroom to remove the thing. Whatever Coulson wanted to talk about, it probably didn’t actually involve some adrenaline-fueled attraction to Clint, and Clint was positive that the plug was going to be an ongoing distraction. 

He popped the lids off the bottles and walked back to hand one to Coulson before taking a deep draught from his own.

“So I owe you an apology.” Coulson rolled a bottle between his palms, not looking at Clint as he started speaking. “My behavior was thoroughly unprofessional on the last op, and I--” He flushed, the fine scattering of freckles across his forehead and cheekbones disappearing in a wash of pink-- “behaved like a… like a brute. I had no right to… to just… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. What I did.”

Clint stepped around the scratched coffee table and dropped onto the end of the couch. _That_ was a mistake, and he hissed at the sudden pressure on his prostate as the seat cushion wedged the plug in tighter, lighting up his spine and making his eyes want to roll back in his head. It was hard to form words, but Clint took a tight grip-- figuratively speaking-- on himself and managed to speak.

“No, Coulson! No it was…” The electric wave finally ebbed, even though Clint’s voice came out breathy. He managed to shift to the edge of the couch, leaving just one cheek supported and his thighs trembling as he held himself upright and still. “You were concussed. It was fine, and--”

“Are you okay?” Coulson’s brows bunched together, creating a crease that Clint wanted to smooth with the pad of his thumb.

“Yeah.” Clint answered too quickly. “Yeah, nothing wrong at all. Just… maybe pulled something a little bit. Exercising. Don’t worry about me, Coulson.”

“Phil.” Coulson’s voice was suddenly scratchy. “Call me Phil. And it wasn’t _fine_.” Phil took a quick swallow of his beer and reached out to set the bottle on the wooden crate that served as a side table. “It was…” He took a deep breath and stared down at his hands as they twisted in his lap. “It seems like every encounter with you has been, er, _complicated_ by circumstances beyond our control. But that’s no reason for me to-- I should be able to remain professional, even if I…”

“Hey.” Clint scooted along the edge of the sofa, getting near enough to lay his palm on the back of Phil’s wrist, and even Clint couldn’t tell if he was trying to soothe or trying to seduce. “Hey. Phil, it’s okay. I have a certain level of unprofessional thoughts when it comes to you. So…”

Phil’s head snapped up, his eyes suddenly bright with something that looked like hope and hunger. 

“So it’s not just me?” He was hoarse, and the roughness to his voice sent a shiver straight to Clint’s belly.

“Naw, man.” Clint smiled and wiggled closer. “ _Really_ not just you… Phil.” Phil’s eyes darkened as Clint drew out the name.

“Oh.” Phil blinked and licked his lips. “ _Oh._ ” He licked his lips again, and a hint of a playful smirk grew on his lips and in his voice. “So the _tension_ wasn’t actually one-sided.” 

“I’ve certainly been feeling my fair share of… _pressure_.” Clint grinned; Phil wasn’t the only one who knew bad innuendo. “Glad to know I haven’t been alone.” And then he pictured himself earlier that evening. “Well, at least with the feelings side of things.” 

_Aww, mouth._

His breath caught in his lungs, and his stomach fluttered as Phil scooted toward him. He didn’t know if it was the heaviness in his ass or the nervous anticipation on Phil’s face that made him reckless, and he found himself confessing.

“It was kinda a problem for me on that last op.” Clint looked away, watching Lucky nose around the edge of the coffee table, looking for pizza crumbs. “ I should have been faster to your side, but I got a little distracted when your towel went. _I’m_ sorry you got cut. I should have kept it together better than that.” 

Phil snorted, and Clint glanced over to find Phil blushing, eyes downcast and his whole countenance disbelieving and shy.

“Seriously, Phil!” Clint bumped Phil’s chin with his thumb to make him look up. “Have you seen your ass?”

Phil’s lips twisted wryly. “Do I _look_ like I’m missing a spine, Barton? How would you expect me to check myself out?”

“It’s Clint. Please.” Clint scooted the last inch until his knee was pressed to the side of Phil’s thigh. “And have you ever heard of mirrors?” He didn’t give Phil time to answer, leaning forward and lipping at Phil’s mouth. “Or you could just trust my judgement.”

Phil made a tiny, pleading sound in the back of his throat, and Clint shifted sideways to let the plug press in hard as he reached for Phil’s cheek, drawing him further into the kiss.

____

Phil really _had_ just gone to Clint to apologize. And maybe to confess his other-than-work-related interest in Clint. He still wasn’t sure how he’d gone from that simple plan of attack to having his neck caressed by Clint’s calloused fingertips while his own hands spread out across the muscular nudity of Clint’s chest. What he’d done to earn the warm, stout-flavored caress of Clint’s mouth against his own was beyond his ability to even contemplate. So he gave up trying to figure out how he’d gotten there and just let the momentum carry him through. His stroked gently with his thumbs and the edge of one nail caught Clint’s nipple. 

“Oh fuck, Coul-- Phil!” Clint threw back his head, even as his body pressed forward. “Did you really mean what you said at the gym? About my toy collection?”

Phil froze, mouth falling away from where it was worrying at the hinge of Clint’s jaw.

“Did I… _Oh my god._ ” Phil didn’t know how he kept his erection with the sudden force of what felt like all his blood rushing to his face. “Oh _fuck_. I… I didn’t think I’d said that out loud.”

One of Clint’s big, rough-knuckled hands moved to the back of Phil’s head and dragged his face back into Clint’s neck in a not-at-all-subtle demand that Phil get back to what he’d been doing. “But did you mean it? That you wanted to shove one up me, way back then? That first night when you broke into my apartment to save my life, looking all hot and badass while you did it?”

“Well… Yes.” Phil bit his admission into the sharp edge of Clint’s collarbone, appreciating the desperate whine his teeth elicited. He pulled back and pressed a single, closed-mouth kiss to Clint’s lips. “Been thinking about you ever since. You’ve really...” He leaned his forehead against Clint’s, studying the hooded green eyes from almost close enough. “You’ve really felt the same?”

“Fuck, yes.” Clint breathed the words against Phil’s lips.

“We should... “ Phil’s breath hitched as Clint’s hand slid under the edge of his t-shirt and spread out along his ribs. “We should probably try to do something about the tension. Before we have to go into the field together again. Just to avoid distractions”

“Uh-huh…” Clint slid his mouth up the edge of Phil’s jaw, soft, kiss-swollen lips catching lightly against Phil’s evening shadow. “And you should really know…” Clint swung one leg over Phil’s lap, straddling him and leaning down to whisper in Phil’s ear. “You should _really_ know… I’m wearing that plug you were knocking people out with.”

Phil’s brain went offline for a moment as he gathered two handfuls of Clint’s muscular, perfect ass, fingers inching further to hunt for the flange and see if he could tell which one Clint had in. 

And then the world tipped sideways as something hairy and panting slammed into them both, knocking them heavily onto the couch.

____


	4. Chapter 4

____

Phil had been collected from under a large, happily-panting dog and led down the short hall to Clint’s bedroom. There, once the light had clicked on, he’d found the bed a rumpled mess, a dresser drawer hanging open to display all of Clint’s fine-art glass insertables, looking freshly-cleaned and ready for use. And, most fascinating of all, the large, purple, sparkle-dewed dildo from the nightstand was lying in the middle of Clint’s crumpled bedspread beside a large bottle of lube and a pair of wadded boxerbriefs.

“Did I interrupt something?” Phil raised an eyebrow, enjoying the blush that colored Clint’s cheeks and heated his ears.

“ _Yeah_ , you did.” Clint’s hands slipped smoothly back under the hem of Phil’s t-shirt, shoving it up enough to let Clint watch the way his fingers trailed through Phil’s chest hair. “You interrupted a fantasy--” The look he shot Phil was wicked and full of invitation. “starring you-- that was going to end with that filling me up while I rubbed one out and called your name.”

Every bit of blood left Phil’s brain, rushing south to make his baggiest pants uncomfortably tight.

“Had myself folded up like a pretzel,” crooned Clint, gently peeling Phil’s shirt higher, and Phil obediently lifted his arms to let Clint tug it over his head and off. “Was two fingers deep and taking my time. I was so fucking pissed when I had to stop.”

Clint’s fingertips traced over Phil’s nipples, lightly pinching and creating ripples of heat that made Phil light-headed.

“Didn’t want to stop thinking about you. Imagining it was your fingers slicking me up, searching for just the right angle.” 

Phil let his head thump back against the door as Clint rubbed his whole body against Phil, the steady stream of dirty talk never stopping as his fingers and nose explored Phil’s neck and shoulders. Clint described-- in excruciating detail-- his method for turning himself on and opening himself up to prepare to insert his apparent favorite toy. By the time the button and zipper of his khakis hung open, Phil was panting and desperate.

“So what say you help me out of these pants, manhandle me to that bed, and see just what I left down there for you?” Clint bit down hard on Phil’s earlobe, and Phil whined and humped the sharp edge of Clint’s hip, enjoying the nearly-too-much friction of pressing too hard against something too rigid.

“You sure that’s what you want, Barton?” Phil deliberately growled Clint’s surname, hands digging deeply into the back of Clint’s flannel pants and firmly grabbing two plump handfuls. 

“Yes, fucking _sir_!” Clint sounded breathlessly pleased and nearly as aroused as Phil felt. 

Phil planted his feet and _heaved_ , dragging Clint off the floor and into his arms to stumble the necessary few feet to the bed. He dropped Clint on top of the comforter, appreciating the sight of him bouncing on the mattress, and then leaned down to grab the hems of Clint’s pants. One hard tug, and Clint was spread out, bare, golden, and beautiful.

And then Phil saw the glitter of something lavender and faceted as Clint planted his feet to shove himself toward the center of the bed, briefly aiming his ass toward Phil’s face.

Phil’s brain stopped trying to process entirely, letting Phil’s body take over all decision-making.

____

Bendiness was a good thing. Bendiness was a _very_ good thing, or Clint’s spine might have snapped with the way Phil grabbed the back of Clint’s knees and shoved them up by his ears. 

“You weren’t kidding about--” Phil cut himself off with a groan that Clint echoed when Phil’s fingers pressed on the jeweled flange between his cheeks. “Fuck that looks so good. Fuck, Clint…” 

Phil’s lust-drenched voice came out with a wash of hot breath against the back of Clint’s thighs, and Clint shivered spreading his legs wider, straightening his knees to brace his toes against the mattress. 

“You gonna take it out and fill me up with something else?” Clint closed his eyes and reached between his legs to stroke himself, certain he would _die_ if he didn’t get a little friction. “Couldn’t believe the sight of your dick. Couldn’t believe you were _that big_ soft.” He was almost back to babbling, eyes wanting to roll up in his head as Phil’s trigger callous traced a path around the neck of the plug, rough against delicate skin. 

“That what you want, Clint?” Phil released his grip on Clint’s thigh, spreading Clint down and flat so he could climb over Clint’s chest to kiss his mouth again. “Sure you don’t want me to leave that there and suck you? Or maybe work it out slowly and fill you up with that purple dildo? Fuck your ass with it while you fuck my throat?”

Clint’s only answer was a wordless groan. He wished he’d paid more attention to Phil’s filthy mouth two weeks before; he really _should_ have been expecting the incendiary speech that was pouring out, washing across his already overheated nerves and lighting fires in his belly and groin. 

“Take your pants off,” Clint panted, reaching down to palm Phil’s ass. “Don’t want a toy. Not tonight. Had too many toys. Want real. Want _you_.”

Phil gave a pleased rumble and pushed himself up and off the bed where he could heel-squash his shoes off his feet. His hands moved to the gaping front of his pants, and Clint had only a moment to appreciate the wicked glint to Phil’s eyes, the sexy peek of tongue as Phil licked his lips, and then pants and boxers were sliding down Phil’s thighs, and Clint briefly lost track of most of Phil’s body. His entire focus was narrowed to the heavy weight that bobbed and flexed in the air, responding either to the cool air of Clint’s room or the hungry sound that came out of Clint’s throat.

“Oh my god, get over here!” Clint sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, reaching out to cup his palms around Phil’s hips to pull him closer. An angry red line, still framed by the impression of stitches, trailed over the point of Phil’s hip, and Clint leaned forward to press his lips gently to the healing mark. “I’m sorry for this, Phil. I should _not_ have let myself get so distracted.” 

“Shit happens, Clint.” Phil’s big hand cupped the side of Clint’s face, and Clint leaned into it for a second before again pressing a soft kiss over Phil’s injury. “Not the first time I’ve had someone get in a lucky strike, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

Clint let his hands slide around to Phil’s ass, pulling him in closer as he turned his attention away from the healing wound and back to the more _pressing_ feature of Phil’s pelvis. 

And pressing it was, where it left a trace of damp across Clint’s collarbone as he leaned in to touch his lips to the trail of kinked brown hair that drew an arrow down the lower half of Phil’s tight belly. Clint buried his nose against the curls that clustered around the base of Phil’s erection, breathing in the smell of warm and soap and arousal and sweat while he rested his cheek against Phil’s cock.

“Having fun exploring?” Phil’s voice was light and amused, but his eyes, when Clint looked up, were dark and hot, pupils already wide and growing. “I’m not complaining, but I _am_ sort of wondering if you’re just going to snort me until I die from lack of oxygen to my brain.”

Clint smiled at him, slow and wicked as he could manage. 

“Know what else I learned in the circus, Phi-i-illl?” He dragged the name out as long as he could without sounding completely absurd, just to see the pleased crinkles deepen at the corners of Phil’s lovely eyes. “I also learned sword-swallowing.”

He opened his mouth, closed his eyes, and clenched his thumb tightly inside his fist to kill his gag reflex as he leaned forward and swallowed Phil to the root, pressing until he couldn’t breathe, until Phil filled all his senses and he was choking.

Somewhere above him, a desperate, broken little groan trickled out, and Phil’s thighs began to tremble against Clint’s palms. Clint forced his throat to swallow around the intrusion, just to hear that sound again. It’d been so long since he’d been with such a reactive lover.

Sex toys just didn’t respond to deepthroating.

____

Phil was grateful when Clint pulled back enough to suck in a couple of deep breaths before pressing down to a shallower, more respectable depth to suck and lick and bob. It had nearly been Game, Set, Match when Phil had felt Clint’s throat begin to flutter around him. Quite frankly, Phil hadn’t believed such things happened anywhere outside the pages of special interest men’s magazines or on the set of adult films. 

Of course, if he’d been asked before he’d been dragged upside down through Clint’s window that first night, Phil would have sworn that men like Clint didn’t exist without airbrushing or writers with overactive imaginations.

Phil clung to Clint’s broad, muscular shoulders, trying to keep himself upright and keep himself from going off like a goddamned rocket. A stream of steady praise and filth spilled out from his lips, and he was shocked with the depths of his own depravity, with the fantasies that had apparently been building up behind his conscious imaginings. He was also shocked both by how _well_ Clint gave head and his ability to get so much of Phil in his mouth. There hadn’t been many lovers who could fit in more than the head and maybe another inch or two.

Clint had been shifting his hips against the bed in a rhythmless grind, and Phil quivered when he realized that the movement was meant to help Clint fuck himself on the plug, the sparkly, oval jewel probably snagging gently against the sheet. The suction and head-bobbing finally slowed, and Clint began pulling back with aching slowness, finally popping off with a pornographic slurp.

“So, you ready to get this monster inside-a me yet?” His voice sounded like his throat was shot, and he looked thoroughly debauched, mouth swollen and blurred and eyes red-rimmed and watering. “If I go much longer here, I’m gonna come on this plug without a hand on me, and I’d much rather get there with you inside me and your hand pulling me off.”

Phil growled at him and shoved, throwing Clint backward onto the bed. He tried to find words, but all he could manage was a small whimper. He scrambled frantically to get close as Clint executed an acrobatic twist and stretch to end on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed.

“Condoms over…” Clint waved one hand toward that damned clear nightstand that had been the _actual_ cause of so many of Phil’s daydreaming problems. If he hadn’t known that Clint had that one toy that he used, that one _large_ dildo, he wouldn’t have lost so many hours to picturing the muscles of Clint’s perfect, rock-hard ass stretched around it and, by proxy, stretched around Phil. 

_Okay, so that’s a damned lie._ Phil snorted at himself as he opened the drawer and pulled a strip of condoms out of the corner, grateful that there was a selection that included his favored brand of larger fit. He’d have been picturing himself fucking Clint if they’d both been fully-dressed at each meeting. He’d have dwelt on the same mental images even if he never knew that Clint liked dick.

He perched himself behind Clint, leaning down to press his lips reverently against Clint’s spine, just above that magnificent ass.

“Imagined you like this,” he murmured, reaching out to trace around the pale purple jewel. “Just like this, shaking with how much you want, how much _need_.” He reached down to give himself a lazy squeeze, trying to keep from tipping over the brink too soon. His other fingers curled around the flange, and he worked it in and out minutely. 

Clint hissed and arched, and Phil drew back until the bulb of the plug began to offer a bit of stretch to Clint’s rim. Clint’s body resisted giving it up, so Phil shoved it back in, testing the angle until Clint made a choked-off sound and tossed his head. Phil smiled to himself, giving himself a slow stroke and working the plug out another inch before he slid it back in, nailing his target a second time. He let go at last to tear open a condom packet and roll it down his length with hands that shook and nearly fumbled.

“Don’t tease me, Phil.” Clint’s arms had begun to shake, and he sagged until his cheek was resting on a pillow. “Come on, get that out and get yourself in. Please, babe. Need--”

The rest of his pleading broke off on a broken moan as Phil again tugged at the jewel, moving slowly and rocking it side to side and up and down as he worked it all the way out. Clint’s ass was still glossy with slick, but Phil didn’t trust it to be enough. 

He collected the bottle of lube from beside Clint’s knee, flicking the purple toy aside as he did so. Clint shivered at the click of the cap, and Phil drizzled a cold stream directly onto his target, chuckling darkly at Clint’s yelp of shock. He rubbed it around with three fingers, pressing gently until they all popped inside and Clint moaned again, shaking with the stretch.

“Next time, I get those fingers of yours inside me,” Phil forced his tone to stay conversational, even if the register kept dropping. “Wanna feel your knuckles like goddamned beads. Wanna fuck myself on them. Ride your hand.”

“If you don’t get going,” Clint twisted his neck to free his face from the pillow so Phil could understand him, “there’s not going to be a _this_ time, Phil.”

Phil gave one last stretch in hopes of not hurting Clint, and pulled his hand free gently. He and Clint both sucked in huge breaths in tandem as Phil took himself in hand and lined up. They both growled out sighs as Phil pressed in slowly but steadily, hands clenching on Clint’s hips as he did so, fingers biting deep as Phil struggled to maintain control.

“Hand me the lube,” Clint panted at him when Phil was buried as he deep as he was going to get. Phil tossed the bottle up to where Clint could reach it, flattered that Clint was already so desperate for a slick touch on himself. He rocked slowly, movements small and controlled as Clint fidgeted with the slick, hands tucked under his belly while he held himself up on his head. 

And then the lube was tossed aside, and Clint’s spine curled, one shoulder flexed as Clint reached down, and Phil suddenly discovered that Clint was a sneaky bastard and a sex god in one.

Instead of stopping at his own cock, Clint’s hand reached between his thighs and further back, sliding between Phil’s legs, one finger slipping back and up to press _inside of Phil._

____

 

The gasp Phil gave as Clint breached him was the best thing Clint had ever heard. Encouraged that he’d called it right, he thrust gently, letting the swell of his first knuckle pop inside and then pulling it back. Phil’s hips chased his hand before rocking forward to seat himself deeply inside Clint again. And _that_ was just perfect, so Clint thrust again, harder this time, going as deep as his second knuckle before slipping away to make Phil chase his hand for the next thrust.

Clint closed his eyes, letting himself get lost as they set up a rhythm, Phil’s hips jerky as he chased sensation both directions, fucking hard into Clint’s ass before rocking back onto Clint’s hand. It might have been an hour or it could have been only minutes when Clint added a second finger to give Phil something more substantial.

“Already close, Clint.” Phil barely squeezed out the words, his breath sobbing out of him in desperate pants, sounding absolutely overwhelmed; it was a feeling Clint could relate to when Phil’s hand, still bearing traces of lube, slid down and around until Clint was fucking into Phil’s fist. “So goddamn close. Gonna… Shit. Shit!”

Phil’s fingers tightened as he slid over just the right place inside of Clint. Only a few more strokes from both of them, and Clint’s orgasm went from _close_ to _happening_ between one breath and the next. Clint shouted, spine curling as he felt Phil flutter around his fingers. Phil shoved in once, twice more, and then let out his own shouted groan as he clenched down almost painfully on Clint’s fingers, one hand pinching bruises into Clint’s ribs, his other hand slipping off of Clint’s cock. He froze but for tiny pushes with his hips as he shivered through the aftershocks, and Clint froze, too, trying to keep from collapsing, trying to be a stable base for Phil to lean against.

Eventually, Phil took a shaking breath and pressed Clint flat, hissing as Clint’s fingers slipped free. Once Clint was spread across the mattress, Phil draped himself over Clint’s back and lipped sleepy kisses across Clint’s neck. Clint whined as Phil pulled out, and then he sighed with relief when Phil ignored removing the condom to cuddle close, still half-flopped across Clint.

“I don’t think that worked.” Phil sounded thoughtful, and Clint’s stomach clenched.

“I thought it worked really well,” he returned carefully, pushing himself up enough that he could turn his head to study Phil’s face. All the lines on Phil’s forehead were relaxed, and his eyes were closed, lashes fanning out across his cheeks. He was _gorgeous_ , and Clint realized how desperately he didn’t want this to be a one-night-only kind of arrangement. 

“It didn’t, though.” A smile tugged at the corner of Phil’s lips and his eyes opened, blue and flecked with brown and so warm that Clint wanted to curl up under that look and purr like cat. “The sexual tension is _clearly_ not gone. I think we’ll have to do it again sometime.”

Clint’s nervousness rushed out of him, leaving him quivering. He laughed and reached up to brush his hand across the back of Phil’s wrist. “That’s an excellent idea. How ‘bout in the morning, before pancakes?”

“Yes. Good plan.” Phil pushed himself away from Clint’s side reluctantly and carefully removed the nearly-leaking condom, dropping it into the small trash can beside the bed. He pulled down the purple comforter and tugged at Clint until he sat up, wiped his belly off with a corner of the sheet, and climbed beneath the covers. 

Phil collected the spare condoms and the bottle of lube, hunted around for Clint’s formerly-favorite sex toy, and dropped them all in the drawer of the nightstand. Clint was impressed that Phil bothered, and felt slightly ashamed that he wasn’t helping with the cleanup, so he picked up the plug he’d worn earlier and flung it toward the hamper to remind himself to wash it later. 

Clint whined at the loss of body heat on the bed when Phil stood all the way up, and Clint’s throat went tight with a sudden fear that Phil was actually _leaving_. Phil, though, was only going to turn out the light. He opened the door to Lucky’s scratch before picking his way across the darkened room, neatly avoiding the piles of their clothes and his own shoes. Clint found himself enveloped in warmth as Lucky jumped onto the bed to settle against his hip on one side while Phil slipped beneath the covers and curled into Clint’s arms on the other.

“Hope you locked the window this time.” Phil sounded sleepy and content. “Is this pancake breakfast pants-optional?”

“It’s _us_ , Phil.” Clint chuckled against the back of Phil’s neck. “I think pants-optional is a requirement.”

“Clearly,” Phil answered, body going even looser as sleep started to overtake him. “ _Clearly._ ”

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. As ever, your comments are obsessively reread, slobbered over, and held tightly to my bosom like the precious little darlings they are.

**Author's Note:**

> With the usual thanks to my incredible betas, [Selana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana) and [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar), both for their help in polishing and fixing and making pretty, and for going above and beyond to do it so QUICKLY so I could meet the deadline. All that while working on their own works and living their own lives and just generally being amazing. THANK YOU BOTH! I love you more than either of you can guess.
> 
> This was almost absurdly fun to write. The conversations I’ve had around this story and the excerpts I’ve shared from it have led to so much laughter for so many people. I hope that, for anyone who reads it, they leave with cheeks aching from smiling and a little less stress than they came to it with. 
> 
> Do come visit me on my blog, [Intentionally Untitled](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com), where I share my writing trials, the weirdness that is my life, and reblog insane quantities of bunny. There you’ll also find pictures of my cats and posts about the sex lives of the action figures on my desk.


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